Casting Stones
by ScarletDeva
Summary: The Wizarding World is certainly archaic in a lot of ways. But that doesn't mean it isn't modern in many others. And prophecy belongs to the past. Yet the past rears up to entangle Harry Potter. And he isn't the last one.
1. Chapter 1: Touching The Past

_**Casting Stones **_  
Rating: R for the moment  
Genre: Drama/Action/Adventure  
Warnings: Some specifically stylized sex.  
Summary: The Wizarding World is certainly archaic in a lot of ways. But that doesn't mean it isn't modern in many others. And prophecy belongs to the past. Yet the past rears up to entangle Harry Potter. And he isn't the last one.

**Chapter 1: Touching the Past**

The wind whipped Hermione's already tangled curls and she brushed at the impatiently. It was cold and the chill seeped through the thin cotton of her loose dress, crawled up her bare feet and nipped, almost gently, at her nose. She didn't have time for the cold.

Hermione turned around and walked back from the great teeth of stone that stabbed into the darkening sky. The magic of Stonehedge was palpable, almost electric, though she absently found the Muggle association ironic. She certainly didn't have time for Muggle references either.

"I'm ready," she said quietly as she stepped in front of Ron and Harry.

Ron seemed ready to say something but an elbow in the ribs from Harry halted his words. Hermione embraced him, inhaling that elusive scent of home that clung to the redhead, then went onto Harry, matching the hug with a gentle-rough muss of his hair.

Then they disappeared. With a pop of course.

She didn't know where they went and she didn't have time to wonder.

Minerva McGonagall approached her silently, Molly Weasley at her side. Her former professor held a small crown woven of flowers with all the gravity of handling a priceless artifact, the severity in her expression as she carefully laid it on Hermione's head only reinforcing that impression. The deep lines adorning her face seemed more pronounced in the coming darkness and that was fitting.

The Crone brought wisdom. She did not bring youth. That was irony again. Focus, Hermione, focus.

Hermione squeezed out a faint smile. Professor McGonagall supported her choice silently and forcefully, but that didn't mean she didn't worry. The smile elicited a nod and the Crone withdrew to leave place for the Mother, though that certainly was the reversal of the usual turn of the wheel.

Mrs. Weasley opened the small pot she held in her hand, dipping her fingers inside the fragrant oil. With a shaking fingertip and an expression that mirrored her son's, she marked Hermione's skin. Hermione knew every stroke, could picture it in vivid color as she drew it herself the first time on stark parchment.

She waited to feel sanctified.

It didn't come.

But they couldn't stop.

The three women walked silently towards the towering stones, stepping into a triangle pattern that they didn't rehearse but nonetheless created perfectly.

Something snapped.

Hermione was inclined to think it was a branch somewhere. A piece of wood that got caught under something heavy. She knew that wasn't true however.

She could see the truth in the warmth of Mrs. Weasley's stubborn smile and the shadowed depth of Professor McGonagall's narrowed eyes.

They raised their arms.

Somewhere, far far beyond their ken, the turbulent waters that guarded the secret treasure stilled, sensing what was coming. It was something that hadn't come in millennia.

Somewhere, far far within the darkness that multiplied with the advent of years that guarded Britannia's history, an old man stirred in his eternal sleep. He almost smiled. And he slept on.

Minerva began the cycle. She was named well, wisdom building the foundation, words spilling from her lips that were old before her grandparents were born, words that were renewed by her speaking.

Hermione did not recognize them. But she knew them somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Just like she knew the source of the faint, ever so barely audible melody that threaded through the grass beneath her feet.

Molly's name did not suit as her voice joined Minerva's in supplication. She was not bitter, though the Mother's thread was full of pain sometimes just as it colored in joy. She was not simply a housewife, a mother anymore. She was all mothers. And more. She was Woman. Just as Minerva was Woman.

Just as Hermione was Woman.

Just as the Maiden added her plea to those who came before her. Those that she would become.

The sanctity came.

The sun set.

There was no light. Certainly no glimmering interweaving of golden and silver beams. Hermione knew that. But she saw it anyway.

She could feel herself growing distant, far away from the reality of the prickling wind against her skin and the crinkly grass under her feet. Yet she was also somehow closer. Closer to... something.

She was Maiden.

She was Lady.

And she disappeared in something that must have been Apparation. The pop was lost within the... well it was lost. That had to be it.

Her voyage did not seem a voyage to her. She merely blinked out of Stonehedge and appeared... elsewhere.

Blinded.

She could see the light, nothing but see the light and hear the otherworldly melody that spun around her. Everything outside of that was faded, ghostly.

She touched the light and it exploded and she could do nothing but cry for how perfect it felt. The warmth, oh god, the warmth, oh god, god, goddess...

She was the Lady. She was the Eternal and Generous, She who birthed Life and nurtured It. She who destroyed It to birth It again.

Something... something was missing.

The... changing.

The... changing of the seasons. The King who died to become King for He was never less and never more and always Her equal.

Her Consort. Her Horned One.

The cycle had to be complete. So She sought him out, sent out every fibre of silvery Self looking for His golden one. Her everlasting peace to His bright burst of passion, death and rebirth.

The cycle had to be complete.

So there He was.

His hair was sunny by right. His naked form hid behind no false modesty, only Their symbols adorning His golden skin. It was the body of a Hunter, of a god who knew His place in their eternal entanglement, His muscles lean and sinewy, His limbs long and tensed with anticipation.

His face was beautiful in its joy.

"I have never dreamed," He breathed and She shushed Him, Her finger against His lips. Then Her mouth took its place and fire leapt into being.

She held the Land. It was Hers to breathe rebirth into.

But it was His to take. To love. To defend.

Much the way She was.

She rained kisses over His skin as His hands paid worship to every curve of Her form. The aching pleasure made Her empty, moans spilling from Her mouth as Her body demanded everything He could give. He was inflamed with Her pleasure, moving helplessly, His skin rubbing against Hers as He shivered. Or did She shiver?

The Lord took the Lady.

She cried out, rising to meet Him, spilling Her blood to mark the new turning of the season. He sunk in gratefully, the glory driving His pleasure.

The Lord gave to the Lady.

He kissed Her frantically, moving inside Her with a desperation that was surprising and wonderfully familiar, His touch the warmth of Her existence. She voiced Her own pleasure in words that no longer and did not yet exist, words that were no words at all, pure meaning, and He understood as They moved, writhing against each other.

The Lord joined the Lady.

Light was pleasure, pleasure was sound, all was fire. She knew Him. She was within Him. She was touching Him with Her body, Her mind, Her soul. She liquefied, Her body surging upward to sheath His final stroke. She knew it was the last just for She knew He honored the wheel, He gave life to the new turn.

She faded.


	2. Chapter 2: The First Ripples

_**Casting Stones **_  
Rating: R for the moment  
Genre: Drama/Action/Adventure  
Warnings: Some specifically stylized sex.  
Summary: The Wizarding World is certainly archaic in a lot of ways. But that doesn't mean it isn't modern in many others. And prophecy belongs to the past. Yet the past rears up to entangle Harry Potter. And he isn't the last one.

**Chapter 2: The First Ripples**

Hermione woke up slowly, almost dreamily. It was a sharp contrast from her usual mode of waking, trained by the ever-necessary, Moody-endorsed vigilance. She would open her eyes and snap awake, the world blatantly separating into pointy edged chiaroscuro.

But not this morning.

It was definitely dreamy. Everything seemed coated in a drifting fog that lulled her into a light doze. She peeked open one eye, blinked, then smiled and curled around her pillow, burrowing into her heaping mountain of blankets.

The faint knock did not disturb her. It only melded into the morning.

"Yes," she called out in what could almost be a sing-song voice if it wasn't so soft.

Professor McGonagall slipped into the room with a tray firmly gripped in her hands. From it, wafted a delicious scent of lemons and cinnamon. The older woman sat herself down next to Hermione and uncovered the dishes. There was tea and oatmeal and tiny raisin scones as well as a large platter of fruit. Hermione snuck a hand from under the blanket as she favored her old teacher with a somewhat absent smile. She snitched a strawberry and popped it into her mouth, the tart flavor the first thing with any definition to it since she woke after...

Wait...

Hermione sat up sharply, her eyes rounded as she processed what she could remember. Her mind landed on the biggest hole immediately. "How did I get here?"

Professor McGonagall slowly, intently buttered a scone and handed it to Hermione before replying. "You simply appeared in your bed several hours after midnight, Ms. Granger."

"I Apparated?" Hermione attempted to clarify in horror.

"We do not believe so."

"Then someone brought me here," she ventured forth.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "No one from the Order knows where you were. Our wards were not breached, so it could not have been anyone outside of it. That leaves no one."

Hermione clutched her temples, her forehead wrinkled as she tried to work it out. "I certainly did not Apparate here. I have no recollection past..." Here she faltered and blushed darkly.

There was no real need to spell out what had happened. They all knew what the intended purpose of the ancient ritual on Beltane night was. The night the ancients believed to be the beginning of the renewal of the land was perfectly suited to reach out to the purported shadowy mysteries that lay behind the fabric of the Wizarding World.

Hermione did all the research herself. A virgin was chosen to portray the Goddess. A young man was chosen to fill the role of the God. They came together, which was as close as Hermione could bring herself to term the act, to bless the rebirth of the land as the seasons turned to spring. The crumbling texts that she obsessively consulted all agreed that the magic invoked in the act often did mysterious things, amazing things that benefited the old Britannia.

Things of that sort were sorely needed in the viscously endless days of the Second War.

Besides, a girl was raised knowing that no magic existed, then grew to believe in it, use it, become part of it, was logically the first one who could put stock in the possibility of it being something more. It didn't hurt that Professor McGonagall's family passed down certain stories from one generation of stubborn, traditionalist Scots to the next. They weren't very explicit, but bits here and there only reinforced Hermione's theories.

But she still couldn't think about... the act without severe, undying embarrassment.

"You disappeared from Stonehedge, Ms. Granger," Professor McGonagall said. "I suppose it would be reasonable to assume that your return could be credited to the same forces."

Hermione stayed silent for a moment, knotting the sheets between her listless fingers. "It certainly worked in any case. It... happened. I... met the god." Allusions would have to do.

"I see," the other woman responded calmly. "Do you know who he was?"

That was another thing. When Hermione firmly decided that they should appeal to these ancient forces, Harry was very vocally insistent that they select the young man and that the young man be Ron. Ron himself merely tried to fade into the background and was betrayed by the fiery red of his ears. Hermione knew he had feelings for her and he certainly would not be adverse to filling the role of the Consort, however she was adamant, and surprisingly backed by Professor McGonagall, that they leave the choices to the magic.

"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "I remember being at Stonehedge and then moving somewhere else. I have no idea where that was. He appeared in an aura of radiance that effectively obscured his features and we didn't... um... exactly stop to discuss things." She studied the pattern on her blankets intently, her face heating as bits of memory nudged themselves to the front and center.

"We should find out who he is," the older woman said decisively. "You, however, should eat your breakfast. We will continue this discussion later." Professor McGonagall stood up, subtly fixed Hermione's blankets and left the room, closing the door softly.

Hermione sighed. She looked around the room, somehow lacking without Ginny's presence, then tucked her feet under herself and began to eat, all the while her mind turning all the facts, as she knew them, over and over.

Ginny glowered at her pacing brother. "Oh for Merlin's sake, Ronnie-kins, stop trying to rub a hole into the floor."

He spun about and returned the dark look. "How long does it take to eat breakfast?"

"Oh leave it," Ginny retorted. "She spent the night casting some very serious magic. Give her some time to recover. Harry, back me up here."

The dark haired wizard, sprawled lazily on one of the kitchen chairs, merely shrugged. The past months spent in search of the Horcruxes changed the three teenagers in a myriad of ways but Harry most of all. His temper seemed tightly reined by a near vow of silence.

Ron, on the other hand, seemed to collect all the moods the other two didn't express. He waved a hand at Ginny dismissively. "We shouldn't have let her go."

His sister snorted. "Because you're the king of Hermione-land? It was her decision you know."

Just as Ron was about to huff a reply, Harry sat up. "Hush." The rare sound of his voice accomplished his goal efficiently. The siblings went silent and all three could now hear the faint footsteps descending the staircase.

Hermione walked into the kitchen, balancing her food tray in one hand as she opened the door. "Morning," she said and Ron rushed to grab the precariously suspended dish from her.

Harry retreated to his status quo position, his legs stretched out, leaning back carelessly as he nodded in greeting.

Ginny searched Hermione's face anxiously and stepped in to hug her the moment Ron removed the single barrier. Hermione returned the embrace, fidgeting just slightly. She smiled at the boys, then fetched the tray again and set the dishes into the sink so she could wash them.

"It'll get done later," Ron said impatiently. "What happened?"

Hermione flashed him a serious look before pulling up the too-long sleeves of the borrowed, blue terrycloth robe and turning on the water. "It's done," she responded. "Now we wait and continue searching for the Horcruxes."

"Now wait a minute," Ron began.

"Leave it," Harry cut in.

The ensuing awkward silence was interrupted only by the clinks of the china and silverware as Hermione washed them. The steam from the hot water drifted from the sink and Ginny sighed a little, then rose to her feet.

"Give me the dishtowel," she said and Harry passed it over. "Christmas Eve is tonight. We should at least pretend we have something to celebrate and do something."

"Ginny!" Ron protested.

The door swung open again and Tonks burst in. She looked tired, the tangerine hair that cut off abruptly at her chin only highlighting the stress in her face.

"Wotcher, kiddies," she said with wan cheer. "Just letting you know Moody wants a meeting."

Hermione eyed the unfinished load of dirty dishes with something akin to regret as she turned off the water and dried off her hands with the dishtowel that Ginny handed her.

The four teenagers followed the Auror to the drawing room and the procession seemed all too tragi-comedic in its silence.

It was going to be a long day.


End file.
